


Beyond Reason Why

by withthekeyisking



Series: love you beyond reason why [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Assassin Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce is bad at emotions, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Sex, Getting Together, Hurt Dick Grayson, Kinda, M/M, Pining, Protective Batfamily (DCU), and Dick is bad at being vulnerable, so it's a match made in heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Bruce knows he should put an end to this thing between them. Knows Dick is dangerous, and continuing to engage is more than likely going to end painfully.But watching him smile, seeing him throw back his head and laugh at something Bruce says—it's hard to think Dick could ever be something even resembling bad.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne
Series: love you beyond reason why [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100843
Comments: 89
Kudos: 390





	Beyond Reason Why

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toe in the Brudick pool :)
> 
> Title from _Hate That I Love You_ by Rihanna and Ne-Yo

Bruce watches Dick while he sleeps.

He knows some find this unsettling—Selina informed him of that once, when she woke up to find his eyes already on her—but he can't help it. The younger man simply looks so...peaceful while he's asleep. So _unguarded,_ something that is a true rarity when it comes to Dick.

He's very good at pretending to let his guard down, enough that sometimes Bruce even doubts his own observational abilities. The times Dick is actually, truly without his walls up? Bruce soaks in any opportunity to take in it.

He looks beautiful. He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow, the sheet bunched down around his waist, the golden skin of his back revealed. Bruce's eyes trace the scars there, the ones that tell a story of years of fighting, of hardship, of _torture._ He's spent quite a bit of time mapping those scars, the same way Dick has done to his own.

He knows Dick takes pride in his scars, in the way they prove he's survived so much and still come out on top. He also knows that sometimes they ache with phantom pain, and those same wounds drift through his gaze, unable to be forgotten, unable to be pushed aside even by Bruce.

Dick's hair falls across his forehead, curling over his eyelids. His lips are parted slightly with quiet breaths, and Bruce remembers the way they looked wrapped around him the night before, the sparkle in Dick's eyes as he brought Bruce to completion.

 _He's so beautiful,_ Bruce thinks again. And here, like this, it's almost easy to imagine that Dick is harmless. He looks so gentle lying next to him; it's almost possible to forget that Dick killed someone yesterday. Almost easy to imagine that the bruises on his skin come from a simple spar instead of a fight against the very man he sleeps soundly beside.

Dick never holds back, when they fight. He doesn't fight to kill, but he doesn't refrain from hurting Bruce if the situation calls for it. Doesn't stop himself from taking Bruce down in whatever way he needs to, if Bruce gets in his way.

Bruce can't say the same. It goes far past the fact that he doesn't carry the same viciousness Dick has, the same ease with bloodshed. It reaches something deep inside Bruce, something that stays his hand far more often than not when they fight.

He wants to win. He wants to prevent Dick from killing someone _(again and again)._ But when he stands his ground and Dick comes at him with a blade—he can't bring himself to fight at full force.

It's painfully obvious to everyone, including Dick. And Dick never hesitates to use it to his advantage. He uses Bruce's fondness the same way he would any other weapon in his arsenal, and Bruce can't even blame him for it.

He knows who Dick is, what he does. Has from the very beginning, long before they ever fell into bed together. Long before Dick smiled at him, bright and wide and _real,_ blue eyes shining, and asked his policy on going out with criminals.

Bruce's history with Selina probably makes his 'policy' painfully clear, but he knows that's different. Dick is nothing like Selina, past their shared ability to charm their way past his defenses. Selina is just a thief, and one with a good heart. One who will side with the heroes far more often than the villains. Dick is...

Dick _is_ a villain. An assassin. One who kills without regret. His similarities to Talia are probably far more abundant than his ones to Selina, and things between Bruce and Talia ended quite horribly.

He got Damian out of it, and he can't say he regrets loving Talia, but the way things went between them—it makes him worry about Dick.

Because Bruce knows...Bruce knows. He knows Dick is dangerous, extremely so. Knows he should end things between them, because it's _wrong._ How can he continue to sleep with someone who makes a life of killing? How can he let Dick break in and pop a movie in the DVD player, smiling as the younger man provides commentary through it? How can he tell Jason he's wrong for killing when Bruce invites a killer into his bed any time Dick is in Gotham?

He struggles with this, he really does. Especially on the days they truly get into it, and Bruce barely walks away from the fight.

Those are the days Tim yells at him and Alfred gives him that _look_ and Jason shakes his head with a sneer, all of them worried and incredulous and don't understand how Bruce could continue to do this.

Bruce doesn't understand either. But he can't bring himself to stop, to turn Dick away.

Dick would go if he told him to. If Bruce told Dick to never come back, he'd never see Dick again. He wouldn't be able to find him, either. That would be it, forever.

It's what keeps Bruce from speaking the words, when the self-loathing nearly drowns him, when the feeling of betraying himself and everything he stands for rises up inside him. Because if he says it, if he tells Dick to get out, then he'll be _gone._

And that fact terrifies Bruce far more than what this relationship means for who he has become.

Dick always seems to be able to identify those nights with extreme accuracy. Sometimes he leaves Bruce alone, slipping out the window just as quickly as he came, giving Bruce room to breathe and think and not snap at him, not snap into pieces.

But sometimes he stays, and he crawls into Bruce's lap, and he kisses him with all the gentleness in the world. He strokes his hair and presses soft kisses to his neck and face, and if Bruce is really looking he can see sadness in those far too familiar blue eyes.

It's always gone quickly, though. Genuine emotion with Dick usually is.

Someone taught him long ago to guard his heart, to mask his emotions, to let no one in. Bruce learned those lessons, too, but Alfred never let him slip all the way into the darkness. His family, piece by piece, tugged him further and further into the light.

Dick's never had that. He's only ever had teachers and enemies, masters and cohorts. Never friends or family, never teammates or trusted allies. He's always been alone.

_(They never acknowledge that Dick had a family, once. They don't talk about acrobats and circuses, about cut wires and grieving little boys, because the one time Bruce tried, Dick looked at him with the utmost hate and didn't return for six months._

_They don't talk about it, because Bruce was there, and he did nothing. He didn't think there was anything he could do. And though Dick has moved on, grown up, killed the man who killed his parents long ago, he's never quite forgiven Bruce for his lack of action. It's an emotion Dick hates himself for, and hates Bruce for bringing out in him, so they let it lie and pretend it doesn't exist._

_It's not healthy, and it makes Bruce's heart ache sometimes, but maybe he still carries some guilt because he never pushes the subject again, after that first time._

_Sometimes it truly is better to let ghosts rest, rather than talk about them.)_

Bruce wonders, sometimes, why Dick keeps coming back to him.

He claims there's no real affection here, that Bruce is a good lay and his fondness for Dick makes him easy to manipulate, that having the Batman wrapped around his finger is good for business.

He doesn't realize that the fact he says those things at all shows just how much of a liar he is.

Dick doesn't speak his mind, not really. Not the truths of himself. He watches, and he listens, and he adapts to what he needs to be for the conversation/people/job at hand. If he were truly in this just to manipulate Bruce, he'd let Bruce believe he loves him. He'd convince him this thing between them is real.

And because Dick is very good at what he does, he'd succeed.

But as-is, anything that comes out of Dick's mouth can't be trusted.

His eyes are far more honest. Bruce pays attention to them, to the way the color shifts, to the true emotion hidden in their depths, if you know how to search for them. Usually in the moments Dick thinks you're not looking, or not paying attention, or aren't in a mental state to actually understand what you're seeing.

That's when the gentleness comes out. The softness when he looks at Bruce, the joy when Bruce joins him for a movie or dinner or something _normal._ The sadness when his blade strikes true, and adds an injury to Bruce's already battered body. The longing when he watches Bruce's kids laugh and work together, a seamless team.

Bruce doesn't invite him to stay. Doesn't ask him to stay in Gotham, to be part of the family. He knows Dick would vanish if he did, the same way he would if Bruce told him to get out.

But the invitation rests between them anyway, despite never having been spoken. They both know that if Dick wants to stay, Bruce will have him without hesitation.

Another thing they don't acknowledge.

Dick stirs next to him, legs shifting under the sheet, head tilting upward. The sunlight spills across his skin, making his scars almost shine.

Bruce doesn't resist the urge to lean towards him, brushing their lips together.

Dick hums, kissing lazily back. One hand slips out from underneath the pillow, and he cups Bruce's cheek, fingers scratching lightly over the stubble growing there. Bruce shifts, and Dick doesn't hesitate to move with him, turning onto his back and pulling Bruce on top of him. The kiss deepens, still slow, arousal beginning to stir in Bruce's gut.

"Watching me sleep again?" Dick murmurs, presses a kiss to the corner of Bruce's mouth, then nips playfully at his jaw. "You should work on your social skills; that's considered _creepy,_ you know."

Dick's mouth lies. His hands, clutching Bruce close, tell the truth.

So Bruce doesn't bother to reply, instead sliding a hand down, wrapping it around Dick's cock. Dick lets out a little gasp, red lips parting, eyelids fluttering as Bruce begins to stroke him the way he knows he likes.

That's real, too. Dick's a master of seduction, a master of controlling his body's reactions, but these simple, small responses are as real as the gentleness in Dick's eyes when Bruce tucks his head to kiss Dick's neck, just barely seeing the look, the way Dick would prefer it.

Dick comes with a quiet moan, head tipping back against the pillow. Bruce wipes his hand off on the sheets and kisses Dick slowly, then lets out a huff of laughter as Dick flips their positions.

Bruce settles against the bed, eyes dragging up Dick's body, enjoying the feel of those muscled thighs to either side of his waist. He lets his hands slide up them, settling on Dick's hips, fingers fitting over the bruises left by his hands the night before.

Dick smiles at him coyly, head tilting down so he can look up at Bruce through his fringe. He lifts himself to his knees, then takes Bruce's cock in his hand and holds it in place as he slowly sinks down, groaning quietly when he's all the way back down. He's still slightly wet inside from their activities last night, just enough to ease the way but still leave some small burn behind, just the way Dick likes it.

Bruce breathes deeply through his nose to keep control of himself, letting Dick run the show. The younger man rolls his hips slowly, one hand braced behind himself on Bruce's thigh to make moving easier. His lips are flushed red and wet from their kisses, eyes dark with desire, cock already beginning to fill again with the stamina of youth.

He is truly, honestly, so beautiful.

Bruce tells him so, and Dick smiles at him, eyes crinkling. "I bet you say that to all the girls," he teases, because he can't say thank you.

Bruce comes inside of him, and Dick's eyes roll back in his skull when Bruce bucks his hips up once, twice, three times, hitting his prostate on each thrust, the younger man coming with a small cry, his release painting Bruce's stomach and chest.

They breathe together, for a moment. Bruce keeps his hands on Dick's hips, grip tight, as if that will make him stay. As if he can will it so, can keep Dick from climbing out that window simply by holding onto him tightly enough.

It's never enough.

Dick lifts up off him, then swings a leg over, sliding off the bed and walking to Bruce's ensuite bathroom without an ounce of modesty, seemingly uncaring for the way Bruce's cum begins to drip out of his ass.

Bruce hears his shower turn on, and briefly debates joining Dick before dismissing the idea. He does _not_ have the refractory period of a twenty-six-year-old, and Dick wouldn't appreciate the intrusion, anyway. He values his privacy, his time alone, and Bruce likes to show him that he can still have that here.

Instead, Bruce gets up, wiping himself clean with the sheets and grimacing in brief apology to the fact that Alfred is going to see this, and have to clean them. Bruce might be a grown man, and Alfred might be very aware he has an active sex life, but he still feels guilty.

Dick laughed when Bruce told him that once. Then he bought Alfred a lovely emerald green case of very expensive tea in what might've been apology, or simply acknowledgement.

(Alfred has never drunk any of that tea. He says that he's saving them for a special occasion. Bruce doesn't ask if that's actually the real reason.)

Dick exits the bathroom, washed clean and hair damp. He moves around Bruce's room, picking up his clothes and redressing, humming some song Bruce is unfamiliar with under his breath.

There are weapons hidden amongst his clothes. Many of them. Ninety percent of them lethal.

Bruce is practiced at ignoring them.

When Dick is completely dressed again, he turns to Bruce with a smile, head cocked with amusement. His walls, only partially up during the sex, are now firmly in place. Bruce isn't surprised, but still he mourns the gentleness of sleep, the truth in Dick's eyes when Bruce brought him to completion.

Dick slinks up to him, arms going carelessly around Bruce's neck. He kisses him deeply, a smirk playing at his lips. He draws back slightly, eyes sparkling as he kisses the tip of Bruce's nose, making Bruce raise an eyebrow.

"'Till next time, B," Dick says, stepping away with no lingering touches or looks. Firmly ready to go face the world as what he pretends to be.

The invitation to stay rests between them.

But Bruce doesn't voice it, and Dick doesn't say yes.

* * *

Jason is fuming over in the corner, Tim is staring at the computer with narrowed eyes, Cass' jaw is clenched as she runs through some katas, Damian's brow is furrowed as he sits and watches Alfred.

And Bruce lies on the bed in the medbay and pretends he can't feel their anger, their worry, their confusion. He lies still and lets Alfred stitch him up, focusing on the ceiling far above him to ignore the pounding of his head brought about by the concussion.

He's had far worse nights on patrol. He's come home with many more injuries, and received only part of the concern his family is now showing. He'd like to say he doesn't know why they're reacting so strongly this time, but.

Dick had a target. Bruce got in the way. It happens, and Bruce is going to be fine.

But his children are upset. They know who Dick is to him, and it makes them angry that he could hurt him in this way so easily. It makes them even angrier to know that this doesn't change the way Bruce feels, that he will continue to see Dick. They're worried that Dick's going to kill him one day.

They don't know Dick would never. That he has feelings too, even if he won't admit it.

Well. Cassandra might. But if she does, she's never said anything.

Bruce looks at Damian, at the way the twelve-year-old has balled himself up tightly where he sits atop a cabinet, eyes fixed on Alfred's hands as he stitches up one of the wounds on Bruce's body.

He doesn't know what to say, to comfort him. He's never been too good at that part of parenting, especially with Damian, who came to him with so many walls already up and still is just barely beginning to let them down. He doesn't know how to tell Damian he's okay, that he doesn't have to worry, without making the boy clam up and maybe even leave the room.

Neither Damian nor Dick have ever said anything, but Bruce is pretty sure the pair of them knew each other before Damian came to Gotham. Maybe not well, maybe not with any familiarity, but they'd met. Dick was with the League for quite a while. He's said things that prove he knew Talia. And some of Damian's reactions to Dick...

They knew each other. Bruce is extremely curious about it; he wants to know what that was like, what they'd seen together, what that means for Damian's opinion of Dick, and vice versa. Wants to know if they knew each other well enough that Dick could give him some advice over his own son. Wants to know if there's fondness there, like Dick carries for Bruce, and what that might mean.

He can't ask, though. Damian is suspicious of personal questions, and Dick always evades them.

_(Not always. Sometimes, when it's dark enough that neither of them can actually see each other, when Dick's eyes are distant with old pain, he whispers stories against Bruce's skin. He tells a tale of suffering and learning and surviving, of the trials he's been through to become the man he is today._

_And Bruce stays perfectly still, keeps his breathing even, and lets him speak without comment or reaction. It's the only way Dick can say a word about himself, about his past. The vulnerability is almost too much for him to bear, like he'll snap into pieces if Bruce so much as twitches.)_

Alfred finishes treating him, and then doesn't ask before injecting him with a painkiller. Bruce can't blame him—he probably would've turned them down, despite his pain—but he still feels a spark of annoyance as his eyes drift closed.

He dreams of Talia and Selina and Dick, the three loves of his life, all of them people who would never be able to stay, despite how badly he wishes they would.

* * *

Bruce knows he's being followed.

He's been sensing it for the last three blocks, feeling on-edge for how he can't identify where the person is, only that they're there, and watching.

It's hard to sneak up on Bruce, to conceal yourself from the Batman. Bruce is skilled enough to consider himself among some of the best; it shortens the list by quite a lot who could actually follow him without real detection, and even less who _would_ do it instead of just approaching him.

He's preparing for the worst—for Deathstroke or Lady Shiva, for an actual _threat_ to make themself known. For a fight to begin, one that will be a toss-up about whether or not he comes out on top.

He doesn't expect the familiar figure that drops down in front of him, sitting on top of the building's stairwell roof access.

Bruce pauses, looking up at Dick. He feels the tension slide slowly out of his tightly-wound muscles as his body slowly accepts that there is no threat. Any more than Dick is out in the field, of course. But Bruce isn't in the way of a job, and Dick sought _him_ out.

"Hi," Dick greets with a slow smile, leaning back on his hands and folding his legs daintily. "What a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow, though it's not visible with the cowl in the way. "I could ask you the same."

Dick's eyes shine, his feet kicking against the door. He pushes off, landing lightly on the roof, the gravel crunching under his boots. He begins to stroll towards Bruce, and Bruce can't help the way his eyes drag up and down, taking him in.

Ronin is one of the most feared assassins in the world. He is lethality in human form, deadly and dangerous and about as threatening as they come. Bruce's advice to his fellow heroes, if they see Ronin coming, is to run and regroup, to not engage if they can help it. There are few who can match Ronin's skills, and even fewer who can escape his charms.

Yet Bruce doesn't move. He watches the assassin approach him with no attempt to run, no attempt to shift into a fighting stance. He does nothing except admire his long legs, his bright eyes, the confident way he walks. Does nothing as he moves into his space, body pressing flush against his own, one hand stroking faintly over the bat design on Bruce's chest, the other moving to cup the back of his neck.

"Do people ever come onto you?" Dick asks, tilting his head, smirk teasing and amused. "In this getup, I mean. Does the Bat get people all hot and bothered?"

Bruce snorts, a sound he'll deny making, especially in the suit. The sound makes Dick's smile widen though.

"I can't blame them if so," Dick says. "Who doesn't like a man who could beat them to a pulp? And that _voice,_ oof..."

Bruce rolls his eyes. Doesn't hesitate to point out, "I wouldn't say I could beat you to a pulp."

"Good," Dick replies immediately, winking at him. "Because you couldn't. But I wouldn't say no to you giving it your best shot, tiger."

He's in the mood to play tonight, apparently. Clearly in a good mood. A job must've gone well, then.

The thought puts a sour taste in his mouth, but it's immediately chased away by Dick's tongue as he pulls him in for a kiss.

Bruce goes easily, wrapping an arm around Dick's waist, other hand splaying between his shoulder blades. Dick fits against him easily, the pair of them moving together as easily as breathing after so many encounters just like this. Bruce steps forward right when Dick steps back, walking together until Dick's back is against the stairwell access. One of Dick's legs lifts, wrapping around Bruce's own and tugging him impossibly closer.

He can feel Dick's laugh even though he can't hear it, but Dick doesn't explain whatever he finds so amusing, instead just pulling at Bruce until he flattens the younger man against the wall, their height difference made all the clearer like this.

They break for air. Dick smiles up at him, and Bruce strokes the side of his face with gentle fingers, a touch Dick leans into without hesitation. His smirk immediately turns sharper, like he has to make up for that soft moment, and he pulls Bruce back in, the second kiss far harsher, far more passionate.

Dick grinds against him, and Bruce drinks in the breathless noises, nearly high on the sounds Dick is making. Almost completely hard from them alone.

Bruce wonders, sometimes, how many other people Dick is sleeping with. Dick's never confirmed that he's having sex with anyone else, but Bruce isn't stupid. With the life Dick leads, sometimes fucking is necessary for a job. And even outside of the work, Bruce knows Dick must sleep around, at least a little.

The alternative would be that he is only with Bruce in his free time, but the implications in that (of _feelings_ and _dedication_ and _my-one-and-only)_ are not something Dick will ever allow himself to be. Dick has to be sleeping with people other than Bruce, because if he wasn't, he'd have to face why.

And Dick always has a healthy layer of self-denial between himself and the things he wants.

Bruce doesn't mind, really. He understands. It's easy to ignore the sparks of jealousy, to ignore the feeling of _mine_ whenever he thinks about anyone else being with Dick. Because that's not how they work, and if Bruce ever tried to make them that way, Dick would laugh in his face.

(Not because the feelings aren't there, but because they _can't_ be.)

Dick moans into his mouth, and Bruce's blood sings at the sound. He wants to take Dick home, take him apart, bring him to the edge of ecstasy as many times as he can before the younger man passes out from sheer exhaustion.

But that's not for tonight. Dick set the rules of the game, and Bruce wants him too badly to try to change it up.

So he pins Dick against the wall with his larger mass, shoves his hand down Dick's pants, grips him roughly. And Dick moans, bucking up into the touch. His eyes are dark as they remain fixed on Bruce's face, almost captivated, and Bruce wants to know what's going on in that head of his, what he's thinking when he looks at Bruce like that.

He asked, once. Tried to ask.

Dick had looked at him, smiled, and placed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth before whispering, _"Ask me again some other time,"_ which really meant, _That's one more thing I won't tell you._

Bruce is used to it, by this point. The half-truths and random secrets and lying words with hidden honest eyes. Dick is something of an enigma, but Bruce is figuring him out piece by piece.

He just wishes that at least _once_ Dick wouldn't make it so damn hard to know him.

* * *

Alfred knocks primly on Bruce's office door, pushing it open a second later. Bruce looks up at him, immediately straightening when he sees the look on the other man's face.

"What is it?" he demands. "What happened?"

"We apparently have a visitor," Alfred replies. "Surprisingly, this time he actually used the front door instead of climbing in your window. And he is not looking his best."

Bruce frowns, confused for a moment, and then understanding dawns. He pushes to his feet, immediately rounding the desk and striding towards the door.

Alfred steps to the side, letting him pass without a word.

Dick is standing in the entryway, the hood of his jacket pulled low over his face, hands shoved into his pockets. His body is wound tight, clear even through the loose clothing he's wearing. There's a duffle bag sitting at his feet.

"Dick?" Bruce calls hesitantly. Alfred's right to point out the oddity of this situation; Dick _never_ comes through the front door, and he certainly doesn't _knock,_ and the fact that he's doing so now is very strange. It means something is wrong.

The younger man turns to look at him, and though the hood has cast his features into shadows, Bruce can still see the darkness of bruises that paint the skin of his face and neck.

Bruce swallows, breathing evenly as he approaches Dick. Dick holds still as he walks closer, and then lets Bruce push his hood off without complaint.

A black eye, split lip, bruised cheekbone, darkened jaw and throat. Mottled bruises cover the visible skin, and Dick presses his lips into a thin line, watching Bruce warily.

"What happened?" Bruce asks, trying hard to not make it a demand. Dick looks five seconds from cracking; Bruce doesn't know if that would end in violence or tears, and doesn't want to see either outcome.

Dick's eyes are like flint, his shoulders get even tenser, his hands twitch at his sides. Fear, at the question. At the expectation of the truth, the opening for vulnerability.

Sometimes Bruce wants to rip apart whoever it was that first taught Dick to be afraid before he's anything else.

"I said no," Dick answers eventually, brittle and sharp like glass. His hands curl into fists, but he doesn't move otherwise.

Bruce breathes out slowly. He knows what that means for Dick. That Dick has spent almost his entire life becoming the best at what he does, and part of that has been that he's willing to do what others aren't. He goes above and beyond in everything he does, never stopping, never flagging, never letting anything stand in the way of his mission. He doesn't say _no,_ he just gets the job done.

Bruce is sure that's hurt him over the years. He's sure quite a few of Dick's scars—physical and mental—have come from the fact that he always did what was asked of him. What was commanded.

It feels selfish, how badly Bruce wants to know what was the final straw. He wants to know what, after eighteen years of this life, made Dick turn away. What was worth it to him, when he has always put his mission above all else. What has brought him here, to Bruce's home, beaten and battered and looking like one wrong move will bring him to shattering.

So Bruce doesn't ask. He doesn't force Dick to bare himself any further than he already has. He's never seen Dick this open before—he has enough respect for the younger man to not take advantage.

But he...doesn't know what to say, either. He's never been good at this part of things, whether it's his son or his lover or his friends. Jason calls him emotionally constipated, but Bruce really just feels like there's a wall in his brain sometimes, something that keeps his emotions from turning into something actionable.

Helpful, for his work. Damaging, for his relationships.

"And you came here," he says softly, without really meaning to.

Dick's eyes narrow. "Tell me to go," he says, voice harsh, almost a _demand._

Bruce shakes his head wordlessly. He wouldn't ever, and especially not now. Instead he bends down and picks up Dick's duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Come on," he says.

Dick follows him silently down the hall, up the stairs, into his bedroom. He watches as Bruce slowly empties the bag, putting away the clothes into his closet and drawers, leaving the gear at the bottom to be handled later.

Dick doesn't say a word through it all, just stands by the door as Bruce intertwines their things together, showing him he has a place here in a way he could never convey with words.

He doesn't know what to do next, though. He's been wanting Dick to _stay_ for so long, but what does that look like? What happens now? There are still his kids to consider, and how to explain Dick's presence to the media, and how Dick is going to acclimate to civilian life, or _if_ he's going to live a civilian life, and if not what is Dick going to want to do instead, and-?

"Only one of us gets to be locked in our head right now," Dick tells him wryly. "And I call dibs."

Bruce blinks at him. He can't remember ever seeing Dick look so...unsure, so _hesitant._ There's always been something about Dick that is so closed off, walls upon walls, never completely himself, never completely honest. But the man standing in front of him now—he's looking at Bruce like he's waiting for the dismissal, despite how obvious it's been for so long that Bruce wants him here. How obvious Bruce's feelings have been to Dick.

Whatever happened, whoever did this to him, it's shaken him to the core.

Bruce doesn't know how long this will last, if Dick will snap out of it in an hour. If it will take a week, or a month. But like hell is Bruce going to make it worse in the meantime.

"Come on," Bruce says again, leading the way back out the room and down the hall.

When he was younger, any time his mother or father were upset, Alfred would make them a cup of tea. He carried on the tradition with Bruce, and then Bruce's kids (sometimes substituting hot chocolate when the need arose). Bruce might not be great at comfort, but he can follow traditions.

Alfred is in the kitchen when they arrive. He looks over with a raised eyebrow, expression softening just slightly when he sees the full scope of Dick's bruises.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Sirs? Some tea, perhaps?" Alfred asks kindly.

Dick gives his best approximation of his usual self-assured smile, and neither Bruce nor Alfred comment on the fact that it doesn't even come close.

Bruce puts an arm gently around Dick's shoulders and leads him over to the table, sitting him down. Dick gives him a _look_ at the gentle handling when he sits down across from him, and it draws a small smile to Bruce's lips.

His face is covered in bruises, his eyes are glassy with the potential for tears, he's holding himself like he's afraid of breaking everything around him, and he is still so very beautiful.

"Some tea would be great, Alfred, thanks," Bruce says, offering the older man a grateful look. Alfred's never been the biggest fan of Bruce's connection to Dick, same as the rest of the family, but he isn't hesitating to move past that now that there's someone in front of him who needs help.

"Of course," Alfred says. "I'll have it ready for you both in a moment."

He turns to the cabinet and pulls out a container, setting it down on the counter. When he moves away to grab the kettle, Bruce sees that Alfred chose the emerald tea box.

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't until I had a typo that I realized how similar "Ronin" is to "Robin" and I kind of love that.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed!
> 
> Edit: This is officially gonna have [a sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420910/chapters/72276132)! It'll be out for the 2021 Brudick Week


End file.
